The Journey So Far

A chronological stroll thru the history of Broadway Musicals as they came to be recorded by Hollywood--the summation of a lifelong vocation, and a journey of self discovery. Equal parts cultural history, critique and personal memoir. Comingnext: Jersey Boys

Monday, December 15, 2014

Funny Lady

March 15,
1975, Columbia
135 minutes

Musicals on both stage and screen seemed to be on the
rebound in 1975. The year brought forth four Bway musicals that got filmed
(eventually), suggesting a new bounty; as did the astonishing release of three
new movie musicals all in March--two of which were even hits! The third, At Long Last Love was another thud from
20th Century Fox (who should have known better) and forever put to rest Peter
Bogdanovich's Golden Boy status in Hlwd. Columbia produced the two hits--as it
had back in '68 with Funny Girl &
Oliver! This time it was Funny Lady and Tommy. The
Who's rock opera had been done at the Met and elsewhere, but would not reach
Bway until '93--in a production that cribbed much from Ken Russell's movie--by
then the tide had turned: musicals were coming from Hlwd to Bway. And they continue to do so.

Funny Lady is slightly off-topic but begs to
be included for several reasons; being a true sequel to a real Bway musical,
with the same celebrated star; and because of a partial score by Bway stalwarts
Kander & Ebb (well, a few songs anyway)--the rest are period tunes
co-authored by Billy Rose, Lady's
love interest. There were interpolations in Funny
Girl, too--songs identified with
Fanny Brice. And that was one of the very few post-Sound of Music
musicals that was a major Hlwd hit. It was a goldmine for Ray
Stark--springboard to a film empire, and a personal triumph: a tribute to his
mother-in-law, as well as the soon-to-be legendary declaration of a new Star.
But to get the movie, Streisand had to sign a multi-film contract with Rastar
Productions, and by '74 had one remaining obligation. Tho she was eager for her
independence, Babs balked at the idea of a sequel, but was eventually
persuaded. It was her first musical since the trio of Bway hits that started
her film career. and a welcome relief after the desperate flailing of her last
movie, in which she played a Brooklyn
housewife turned hooker: For Pete's Sake--indeed.
She was still only 32, playing the 40 to 50 year old Brice--not yet calcified
into her middle-aged Malibu
housewife mode--but adrift in finding her character's maturity or wisdom,
leaning a bit hard on mimicking earlier movie stars. But the public was ready
for another musical from Barbra and despite lukewarm reviews the film was a
commercial success. The ads touted Streisand & Caan: "How lucky can
you get?" What does that even mean? Who's lucky?--we the audience or Babs
& Jimmy? I suppose it could've been worse: At least they didn't go with a tag
like: "That Funny Girl is now a Lady!"

The hero of Funny
Lady was Fanny's third husband (Nick Arnstein was actually the second),
showman Billy Rose. Nearly forgotten by the '70s, he lived long enuf to insist
his infamous 1935 Hippodrome extravaganza (a financial failure no less) be
titled Billy Rose's Jumbo in MGM's
1962 movie. A real life Runyonesque
character, he was short, crude, sweaty and persistent. Robert Blake fit the
bill and was thought a lock, but Streisand nixed his sex appeal. Two runts don't
set off sparks. Pacino & DeNiro were considered, too, but in the end James
Caan was chosen--a better visual contrast to Omar Sharif, who was also back, a
bit grayer now--his role and presence severely diminished. Tho not his shadow.

The screenplay by Arnold Schulman (from his story) &
Jay Presson Allen (from Cabaret)
isn't so much about Fanny's romance with Billy Rose as it is Getting Over Nick.
There's some real crackle to the scenes between Brice & Rose at first, but
once Nick reappears it's dullsville--despite the swelling strains of
"People," the film's only musical reference to Girl (and sad reminder of its superior score.) Brice herself
famously said she didn't like the man she loved, and didn't love the man she
liked. The main thrust of Funny Lady
seems to be to illustrate these points. The story begins (after some of the
cheesiest opening titles (silent clips from Funny
Girl masked in stage lights and double exposure) and a fabricated Brice
skit written by Kander & Ebb, to what seems a repeat of Girl's beginning: Fanny waiting
backstage for Nick after a long separation. Didn't they split up already? Why
does she expect him to return for her closing night? Instead, she gets a
bouquet and . . . divorce papers, We get it: she's available. Enter Billy Rose,
tho we don't know why he barges into Bernard Baruch's office (he's Fanny's
business manager) like a bull in a china shop. "Just going over Mrs.
Brice's daughters holdings," Baruch offers. "Do you mind?" asks
Rose, joining, in having already made up her mind before she has a chance to.
He takes speedy notes, transcribing verbatim like Peggy Cass in Auntie Mame, yet despite his impressive
skills, doesn't even merit Brice's notice when she departs. Once again the
story plays fast & loose with facts. Brice & Rose were actually married
before the Crash, 1929-1938. Here they say it was four years--but why define a
fake timeline when so much else is historically vague? It's a strange romance;
physically skittish, sarcastic, unconvincing. A business arrangment more than a
love affair. Fissures come from the cliche of fame imbalance, but Rose, whose
career was well in ascendence wasn't likely dismissed as "Mr. Brice,"
and the trope was already played out with Nick. Even with this new pairing, the
thrust of the movie is Fanny letting go of Nick in stages, until she finally
breaks free, rushing (in song) back to Billy's side, only to find him with Olympic swimmer

Eleanor Holmes (because he's her Nick) and another divorce on the horizon. Funny Lady has not one but two reunions with ex-husbands; ending
the film on a ten year jump as Billy comes to court Fanny for another
show--each crowing a bit too insistently of their happy lives--only to end with
Fanny promising to think about it. Fact is, they never worked together again,
so why this ambiguous conclusion? Are we supposed to think they will? And isn't
it a shame we don't see more of what Brice did the final decade of her life. We
got more of Baby Snooks in Funny Girl
than here, and this is what made her a household name on radio thru the '40s.
Or even more of Billy Rose. We know he put together an Aquacade, but why fail
to mention it was for the '39 NY World's Fair? His Jumbo is barely alluded to by a poster on a wall--but not even that
for his biggest smash, Carmen Jones.
There are many such unique details that are simply ignored or made vague or
generic.

Aside from the first few (mostly fabricated) scenes
between Brice & Rose, which have some snap and crackle; the movie's better
moments are the early putting-on-a-show scenes, tho even at this late date
they're still as phony as the composer bios made in the '40s. Billy Rose's Crazy Quilt wasn't even the
first show Brice did for Rose--nor the seminal event the movie pretends it was.
They were already married when she starred in his first sole produced revue, Sweet & Low in November '30. The
show ran a decent six months and then was succeded by Crazy Quilt as a fresh summer replacement. It lasted just ten
weeks--which makes even the movie's "5th Smash Month" banner on the
show's posters exaggerated. There's a hilarious, utterly fake sequence,
impeccably shot by veteran cinematographer James Wong Howe (as his final film),
that's a long tracking shot thru the theater, as any and every possible
activity is happening all at once in every corner; the orchestra tuning up,
dancers rehearsing, costumers pining gowns, scenery being painted, lights being
hung, actors arguing--utter staged chaos that would never happen like this.

It's an ancient trope, but we never seem to tire of watching stage mishaps. But
Crazy Quilt's opening in Atlantic City overdoes
them. Runaway turn tables, haywire eyeballs, flooded rain effects, stampeding
buffalo--everything goes wrong! But it feels false having Billy be so clueless
putting his show together; leaving Fanny to tartly play show doctor. And
puzzling after just seeing his impressive smarts in the recording studio. Tho
she's ready to bail, Fanny is browbeaten by Billy to stay--supplying the wisdom
to pull the show into shape. Now we get bits of number after number put in
order. Which is how we get a thoroughly extraneous, if entertaining, dance by
Ben Vereen, "Clap Hands," that's clearly going for the Fosse moment.
Unlike anything else in the movie, its neon-painted urban jungle set, and
Vereen's swiveled, scisccor hips are a celluloid shot of adrenalin. (I'd put
this as possibly the best number Vereen ever got on film). Following this Babs
has her way with "Great Day"--in every way more CBS 1971 than Bway
1930. Brice's audience wouldn't know what to make of it.

Why are these Star bios so reductive, so insular they seem
to suffocate their subject? (Like Star!
A Gertrude Lawrence story without a mention of Beatrice Lillie) When Billy says
late in the movie, "I married a parade," it rings so false because
we've seen Fanny virtually alone thruout. Or with her "pansy" pal,
Bobby--a thoroughly colorless part played stylishly by Roddy McDowall, who
served this role well in real life to the likes of Elizabeth Taylor among
others--and was likely every bit as interesting on his own. Surely more
interesting than here. Was Bette Davis's Margo Channing any less dominant in
having the characters around her so vivid and well-written? On the contrary,
she was well served. Streisand is given all focus, but for Caan and Sharif her
necessary vis a vis. No one else
matters. She never interacts with anyone in the show, not even Bobby, really,
she just barks at him like a dog at her heels. Certainly not her theater
co-star, Ben Vereen, nor her own daughter (Stark's future wife). who shows up
so briefly it's possible to miss her entirely. When Fanny berates Nick for
never seeing his child, we think the same could be said of her. And couldn't
they find any place for Kay Medford--Mama Rose Brice? She's mentioned but once when
Nick asks after her. "She sold the saloon, she lives in Lakewood, New Jersey.
She likes Billy." Well, why didn't we get that scene? Instead of forced arguments between the two (over cold
cream and pajamas, for heaven's sake!), it might be more revealing, to say
nothing of entertaining, to see them interact with others as well. There's a
producer's girlfriend who must be squeezed into the show--a storyline so
peripheral you can't help but wonder if it (and the actress Carole Wells)
aren't in the movie for that very same reason.

The script seems to make a point of Rose's casual
homophobia Or is it the writer's bias? "Who's the pansy?" Billy asks
about Bobby, later referring to him as Fanny's "poodle." When Bobby
calls him out on a lie, "Ruth Etting, my ass!" Rose retorts,
"That's swell, dear, when I want your ass I'll know what to call it."
This is the man who penned an actual song called "When a Pansy was a
Flower." How much he actually wrote of such songs as "Me and My Shadow,"
"More Than You Know," "It's Only a Paper Moon" is frankly
debatable. Even as a lyricst he shares credit for his whole catalog--a third
wheel in the process. But if his contribution was the least, his promotion of
songs with his name on them virtually justified his credit. Barbra does all
right by them, tho aside from brief moments when she plays Brice as she was on
stage ("I've Got a Code in my Doze") she performs like La Streisand,
front & center. She had no desire or incentive to hew any closer to Fanny
Brice than her own natural style would bring her. She was the Star now, not
Brice, and saw thru every opportunity to reinforce that. Her velvety croon thru
"More Than You Know" and "If I Love Again" is soundtrack
bait, but of little visual interest. Her best cinematic moment is on "I
Found a Million Dollar Baby (In a 5 & 10 Cent Store)" strutting on a
giant cigarette holder opposite a cardboard woman's face

with hilariously
roving pupils. (OK, I admit the gag makes me laugh.) It's ironic that much of
Fanny's fixes are scaling down Billy's overproduction, for "Great
Day," contradicts this at every turn. Meant as a highlight, it's so
incongruous to its source (as re-invented as "The Saga of Jenny" in Star!) it feels spliced in from one of
Streisand's early high-

concept TV specials. A bone to her fans. In the 5 years
since her last musical film, her status as Hlwd's reigning musical queen was
challenged by Liza--who likewise took home an Oscar for a filmed Bway hit. It
was a deliberate and calculated move to hire Jay Allen and Kander & Ebb
(all part of Cabaret) for Funny Lady. Barbra, had director
approval and would have hired Bob Fosse too, if he was available, but settled
for Herbert Ross, who had staged Funny
Girl's numbers for Wyler. Ross had directed her in The Owl & The Pussycat (where she played a unlikely loudmouthed
hooker) without undue interference. He could stage musical numbers as well,
having come up the ranks as a Bway choreographer turned director. Babs also had
links to Kander & Ebb, recording their early song "My Coloring Book"
in '62--before Liza was part of their lexicon. But now she was so much in their
DNA, their key songs sound like they were written for Minnelli, especially
"How Lucky Can You Get," a cheery anthem that turns ironic when
pushed bitterly. It's first heard as a pop recording by Brice, but then turned into a mini "Rose's Turn" with Fanny firing up an empty stage wtih
lights and anger blazing: "Gee/ Whee/Wow/How lucky/ ....How lucky can you
get!" But, "And if there's a man who'd leave me/I am happy to say/I
haven't run into him yet" Huh? And this just after Nick Arnstein leaves
her, again. They don't dare attempt another "People," but "Let's
Hear it for Me," is meant to evoke "Don't Rain on My Parade" in
its epiphany-driven transit from Rolls Royce (but why is she cruising along
Mulholland?) to prop plane taking off; attempts at topping Funny Girl''s ferryboat shot, in what should be the film's Eleven
O'Clock Moment. It isn't quite. For one thing she isn't moving toward her goal
(love) but away from her longstanding albatross (untenable love); the lyrics so
self-glorifying as to be ridiculous:

For this overwhelming sensation

I could stand a standing ovation

Give my entrance cue to the band

And--Give the little lady a great big
hand!

. .
.

And the critics and public agree

I'm the number one attraction to see

So applaud it and cheer it

C'mon now, let's hear it

For me!

And on top of that, she rushes back to find her other
husband in flagrante. In fact the film
goes flat as soon as the two get married; their arguments dull and meaningless,
losing all the fizz that's in their first several scenes. James Caan is
surprisingly good--in the sort of part you don't expect to see him; exuding a
crude charisma but a charming honesty. Omar Sharif underplays to the point of
ennui, on both his and our parts. Roddy McDowell provides just enuf bark to
make us wish he was our friend too. And as for Babs. . . she leans a bit hard
on the Grand Dame pose (striding thru the Depression, swaddled in endless
furs); imperious, unassailable. The costumes by Ray Aghayan and Bob Mackie are
strictly Diva--anticipating the '80s. Pauline Kael thought Streisand had
overtaken her female impersonators; giving a pure drag performance. Harsh words,
but Babs cried all the way to the bank. It was the 7th highest grossing film of
'75, with $19,000,000 in film rentals. With her musical prowess reaffirmed, it
was on to A Star is Born. (A property
which, ironically, never makes a
Star, but deifies one.)

The stars
had all lined up for me as well.

1975 was going to be my breakthru year.

When I
walked into Harold Prince's office at OneRockefellerPlaza on my morning break
from Brentano's that day in January, I felt like I was granted private audience
with the Pope. Truth is: I can scarcely recall anything about the appointment,
nor could I have back then in 1975. For after some initial small talk Hal
Prince said to me, "I loved your letter, and I'd like you to be the second
assistant stage manager on Pacific
Overtures." I was so high after
that I had to go up to the roof of 30 Rock so I could come down to earth. It
was the RCA Bldg in those days, and I preferred it to the EmpireState
for its nicely tiered roof, the center of which was elevated still more, so
that you could stand with nothing above you but sky. I was literally on Top of
the World. Just like that, I was about to start working on Bway! There was one
caveat: I had to first meet and make arrangments with Hal's right hand man, Ms.
Ruth Mitchell (my first peek into the curiously lesbian world of stage
managers.) Ruth was by then much more than that--more a co-producer, and
staffer. My meeting with her several weeks later was as brief and cool as it
was relaxed and warm with Hal. Nothing in her face showed any interest or hope.
Without even the courtesy of a few pleasantries (after all, I was recommended
by her boss) she stated the show was already fully staffed (which I suppose was possible) and I was ushered out of the office as tho it were a hospital and
another bed was quickly needed. This time I slunk straight down to the basement
of Brentano's where I had to work the entire afternoon in a haze of bummer.

To blunt the disappointment I needed a change of scene. My
roommate Bill and I had both earned a first year's worth of vacation and had
had enuf of winter. A clerk's salary didn't go far, so my choices were limited.
The best deal then was for 5 Days in Venezuela,
so the first week in March, in time for Bill's 23rd birthday, we flew to Caracas. Most of what
happened there stayed there--at least as far as memory serves. All I know is on
the flight home the stews spoke to Bill in English and then turned to me in
Spanish. I took that as a compliment. Back home my plate was full keeping up
with the latest theater & movies. The winter and spring musicals on Bway (Shenandoah, The Wiz, Goodtime Charley,
Doctor Jazz)were to my taste,
dismal. Three Sundays in March were devoted to catching the movie musicals,
first At Long Last Love at RadioCity,
then Funny Lady at Loewe's State and
finally, Tommy at the Ziegfeld. My
expectations ran from high to low in that screening order, only to find my
approval in the reverse. At Long Last...
was an attempt at a champagne comedy in Art Deco with a Cole Porter soundtrack.
But despite such Bway talent as Madeline Kahn and Eileen Brennan, putting
non-musical actors, Burt Reynolds & Cybill Shepherd in the forefront was no
help. Tommy, on the other hand, chock
full of Ken Russell's bombast was a thrilling surprise--a stoner movie I got
thru a contact high. And I even liked the score. It was a curio cabinet of rock
star cameos--anticipating the emergence of music videos and MTV--visually
stunning and splendidly cast. Oliver Reed was vividly comedic and Ann-Margret
was nothing short of mesmerizing. Russell's feel for music was visceral and
honestly emotional. Tommy set a high
bar to beat for my choice of Best Pic of 1975. But the fresh energy in American
cinema was regularly showing its creative muscles. In mid June a very different
kind of movie musical opened on 3rd
Ave. Months earlier Pauline Kael had anointed a
rough cut of Robert Altman's new film an outlier masterpiece in a gushing New
Yorker shout out. She wasn't far wrong. Nashville was a ballsy epic
of contemporary Americana.
Filled with music, it never quite felt like it stopped to be a musical; tho it
was wholly democratic in offering schlock as well as genuinely good country
music. Ronee Blakely was enuf of a discovery that I followed up with her debut
album--which got much play from us. But if there was anything that could put
the movie over the top for me it was giving Barbara Harris the most
out-of-nowhere, gasp-inducing Star-is-Born moment at the film's climax. Nashville
was so unique it had little direct influence on filmmaking in general, or
musicals in particular. But it was ultimately, easily, the film of the year.

With warmer weather Bway was heating up as well. Bette
Midler, who last played two weeks at the Palace, played two months at the
Minskoff in her all-new Clams on the
Half-Shell Revue. But nothing could be more exciting than a new Bob Fosse
show starring my two longstanding favorite Bway Stars (whom I'd never seen on
stage): Gwen Verdon & Chita Rivera in Chicago.
Opening night was sold out, but I made it my mission to get in--and did. It was
a night to remember. Two months later, Gwen was felled by injury and needed an
extended leave of absence. On short notice and Fosse's drilling, Liza Minnelli
stepped in for six weeks. She was sensational. The news from downtown reached
me in time to see A Chorus Line at
the Public, before it marched uptown to its even more glorious run at the
Shubert. Opening almost on top of each other the two shows were the most
exciting new musicals to hit Bway since I came to town. (We get to them in due
time). It was a fertile summer. I played the albums of all above incessantly.

Revived by this upturn in Bway I considered my next step.
As I had persuaded Harold Prince to take an interest in me, why not try the
same with other producers about town? There was David Merrick, of course, my
original idol, but something scared me off him. I was ready to be challenged, I
didn't need to be abused. But there were at least another half dozen names I'd
known from all my years reading Bway yearbooks, who were familiar enuf for me
to personally flatter each: Stuart Ostrow, Alexander Cohen, Kermit Bloomgarden,
Saint Subber, Joseph Kipness, Morton Gottlieb. Within a week my heart was
racing every time I opened my mailbox. I received a letter on July 25th --a Friday.

Once again my
juvenile enthusiasm and bountiful flattery had piqued the curiosity of a Bway
player. (Arnold)
Saint Subber began his producing career at the age of 30, conceiving and
putting together Kiss Me Kate. His
only subsequent musicals were Porter's Out
of this World, and Harold Arlen & Truman Capote's House of Flowers, before he shifted to plays by William Inge, Carson
McCullers and Paddy Chayevsky with some success. But it was his taking charge
of Neil Simon's career from Barefoot in
the Park (and hiring Mike Nichols for his first directing gig) to Prisoner of 2nd Avenue--seven plays (all
made into films) that would be cash cows for the rest of his life. His office
and home were two halves of the penthouse on a mid-rise apartment house at 44 East 67th St. It
was like stepping into a movie. The doorman sent me up and as I arrived on the
13th floor the door to the office was slightly ajar. From inside a hoarse voice
barked at me to come in. There sat a gaunt, scruffy-faced diminutive man, who
looked more disturbing whenever he smiled--which fortunately was not often:
Saint Subber. Where Hal Prince was warm and chatty, Saint was gruff and
intimidating. He had an occasional stutter and spoke in barks and bleats. My
interview skills for this were embarassingly lacking, but he saw something in
me that tickled his fancy. I was so eager in my introductory letter; I had
offered to work for nothing. He was tempted to take me up on it, but in the end
I got $175 a week--more than I was making at Brentano's--which got my one week
notice that afternoon.

It was a freshly rain-swept August day the first morning I
walked across Central Park to work on East
67th. It was quickly apparent the job was more charitable than necessary. Saint
had recently washed his hands of the massive Alan Jay Lerner/Leonard Bernstein
fiasco, 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, and wasn't
exactly busy. But I was to answer the phone and take messages, receive packages
and wait until a project developed. It was a dream job. Saint would drop in
from time to time to regale me with stories of his fabulous life: saved from
suicide in Paris by Jean Cocteau; his teenage boyfriend, Monty Clift, mentoring
Neil Simon, Dietrich coming over to wash his floors.; it was all so glamorous.
From time to time he would try to draw some nuggets out of me, but I was too
young & stupid to realize my background was uniquely strange--and thus
possibly interesting. I gave him nothing. I think had I been older I might have
justified his interest in me and made myself more indispensible. He already had
a boy toy--a young hustler not much older than I. That wasn't his interest in
me. He was 55 then and looked ancient--a chronic smoker & drinker, he
hadn't stepped into a gym in his life. But if in the waning days of his
professional life he yearned to pass his experience on to a surrogate son. I
was ready to step into that role. Much of the time I was alone in the office,
which had the expected theatrical paraphernalia everywhere, and french doors
the opened to a penthouse deck that circled the building. On occasion I'd be
served lunch al fresco--Saint taught me how to eat an artichoke. In the
longeurs between phone calls I took to reading whole volumes of anthologies of
plays from the '20s thru the '50s. I absorbed works by George S. Kaufman,
Philip Barry, John Van Druten, Terence Rattigan, Tennesse Williams, George
Kelly, Thornton Wilder, among others. On some days I'd read 4 or 5 three-act
plays. Nice work if you can get it. And I got it. Sometime in September while prancing
around my bedroom, most likely to the new OCR of A Chorus Line, the rug slipped out from under me and I dislocated
my kneecap. In shock I slapped it back in place, but the subsequent weakness
drove me to the ER. In short order I was in a hip-to-ankle cast (rather
needlessly, I later found out) for a solid month. After a few taxi trips across
the park with my crutches, Saint took this as the opportunity to shut his
office. Bored and out of projects there was liittle reason to keep me around. I
was devastated, and vowed to re-enter his circle in the future. When I realized
I could scrape by on unemployment, I decided to use my 9 months of welfare to
subsidize writing a play--after all, I already had an inside track on a
producer; one looking for a project. But I was so heavily under the influence
of all the plays I'd read in Saint's office, that I foolishly wrote my own
version of a romantic comedy, a barely
updated wannabe Philadelphia Story
set in San Francisco.

I called it Strange Enthusiasm.

It was.

Rather than pursue the free-form absurdist or collage
style I had success with in college, or take inspiration from more contemporary
voices I admired (such as Lanford Wilson and Tom Stoppard) I needed to process
my own old-fashioned boulevard comedy. For the first time in my life, I sat in
a room and wrote as a day's work--unpaid. It was written on a portable electric
typewriter in my room overlooking the yards of 84th St. The steam heat came on
in the morning but shut off until dinnertime. As fall slid into winter, I spent
my days shivering beneath layers of clothing--a small electric heater at my
feet. Now that I was Poverty's Plaything, my theatergoing was less frequent.
Fortunately I'd already seen both Chicago
and A Chorus Line thrice that
summer., but the handful of shows I saw that fall were mostly forgettable--except
for Tom Stoppard's hilarious Travesties,
which tickled me to no end. But there was plenty to keep me occupied on my old
childhood standby: TV. Bill had HBO so I often watched movies during the
afternoon to procrastinate. And that fall network season was bountiful in smart
adult comedies from Norman Lear & MTM. But a newly instigated "family
hour" regulation was the beginning of the end of progressive sitcoms and a
return of the vapid and juvenile. But for now we had All in the Family, Maude, Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, Rhoda, Phyllis
(my new fave, with Cloris Leachman and a scene-stealing 93 year old Judith
Lowry as Mother Dexter), Barney Miller,
MASH, Good Times, Sanford & Son. Not to mention weekly variety shows
from Cher and Carol Burnett. I wasn't lacking
for entertainment at home. On New Year's Eve I decided to torture myself by
seeing the first preview of Pacific
Overtures at the Winter Garden. It was a beautiful show, an aesthetic
masterwork, but of a rhythm wholly off the beat of Bway. The climactic number,
"Next" in which a century of Japan's technological progress is
extolled, was for me the one electric moment of the show. My Sondheim love was
again being tested. Still, I was saddened to not have been a part of it, no
doubt. It was more than thirty years later when I chanced upon learning who
took the spot Hal Prince had so generously offered me. In an online interview,
who should mention in passing he was the 2nd assistant stage manager on Pacific Overtures: Lonny Price. (And at
age 15--how lucky can you get?) So, that was it! I was already too old at 22.
Knowing my victor became a protege of Prince, and a Bway director is a bit
painful, but who's to say had I stepped into that job what my path would've
been. At any rate it was not meant to be. Neither was my plan to become a
croupier. But that's another story.

As they had in '68, Columbia
promoted its two musicals heavily at awards season, along with another March
release, Warren Beatty's trenchant comedy, Shampoo.
Nominations were given to all; writing and acting nods for Shampoo, but only technical noms (5) for Funny Lady--Stresiand's name conspicuously absent. Tommy got just two; expectedly for
scoring, but a happy surprise for Ann-Margret. Her previous Oscar recognition
was for some serious acting in Mike Nichols' Carnal Knowledge. Here she's part gyrating-ingenue A-M, part
singing A-M, and all mature comedienne A-M. Granted it was a thin year (thin
decade) for great women's roles, and each year seemed to require a stretch to
indie and foreign films to fill out the ballot. That said, Ann-Margret was
terrific; but surely she must be the only actress to get an Oscar nomination
for rolling around in baked beans and chocolate syrup. Free of Ray Stark, Babs
with new partner (and boyfriend) Jon Peters, was working toward her own,
second, Oscar--tho not the one she was aiming for.

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Finian's Rainbow 3/17

Kismet 3/24

About this Blog

At the intersection of Broadway and Hollywood,

the Musical has been my lifelong touchstone. How did this happen? What does it mean? Herewith an analysis of my own"glass menagerie;" a Proustian trail of memory and perhaps a final summation of my thoughts and feelings on this unrelenting vocation.

About Me

A man on the verge of a musical breakdown. Why did I do it? What did it get me? Scrapbooks full of me in the background: New York, Hollywood, San Francisco. Palm Springs. This time, boys, I'm takin' the bows.